


The Sin Eater

by salvage



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Cuddling, Gen, episode 18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 23:15:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14629055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salvage/pseuds/salvage
Summary: “You don’t—” Caleb began, and his voice was thick, his accent stronger than usual. “You don’t have to stay with me. If you don’t want to.”Nott and Caleb after the revelations of episode 18.





	The Sin Eater

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to Suzelle.

The walls of the rooms of the Pillow Trove were gold, covered with what turned out to be a glossy fabric when Nott found a joint at the corner of a wall and picked at it with the sharp tip of one fingernail until it peeled. The soft yellow light of the illuminated lamps reflected off the walls to wreathe the whole room in a warm glow: the crisp white sheets of the bed seemed highlighted with gold, as did the red curtains that covered the window. Caleb’s hair, too, though a little lank, matte with dust from the Arena, seemed limned with gold, the tangled mess of it shot through with bright threads. It was about all Nott could see of Caleb, the back of his head, the sloped hunch of his shoulders nearly obscured by the bulky coat and scarf he wore. She heard the soft, familiar crinkle of a page turning and those shoulders rose and fell in a sigh.

Nott took a gamble. “It’s late,” she said, her voice sounding loud to her own ears. The room was much quieter than the places they usually stayed, no tavern noises filtering up through the floorboards or the gap beneath the door (the clink and clatter of tankards; the soft mumble of voices, occasionally raised in laughter; perhaps a fiddle). No, the Pillow Trove was well insulated for its well-insulated guests. But Nott was glad of it, now. The quiet made her a little anxious but Caleb deserved peace right now (peace always, of course, she quickly revised) and she hoped the quiet of the gold-colored room could give it to him, at least for a moment.

Caleb’s shoulders shifted and the book closed. He stretched, raising his long arms above his head, the sleeves of his coat sliding down his arms to expose his wrists and the tattered cuffs of his shirt. His wrists were slim, the bony knobs prominent, as were his fingers as he laced them together to crack his knuckles above his head, and a fierce protectiveness surged up within Nott to see the blue tracks of veins just beneath his pale skin and the suggestions of bones, the tendons and muscles that held Caleb together.

Caleb stood, tucking the book into his pack, and he removed his coat and tossed it over the chair he had been sitting in. After some talking-to from Jester, Nott suspected, Caleb had mostly stopped sleeping in his coat and boots. Nott wasn’t so foolish, but whatever made Caleb happy, she supposed, was all right. He doused one light, then the other, and as he did so he sent two orbs to hover above his head, bathing his hair and half his face in a soft white glow. One cheek was highlighted, the curve of his nose, part of his forehead before a lock of hair falling across it cast the rest into shadow.

He came over to the bed Nott was sitting on. The room, of course, had two lushly appointed beds, piled high with pillows, bright white sheets tucked tight around the mattresses. But Caleb chose the bed Nott had curled up on when he sat to remove his boots, one then the other clunking to the floor. Nott nervously turned one of her rings around on her finger, considering and discarding comments about the beds, but Caleb knew what he was doing, and Nott trusted him.

Without looking directly at Nott, Caleb lay on the bed beside her, resting his head on his arm instead of a pillow, tucking his legs up so that his body bracketed Nott’s. _Oh_ , she thought, and she curled into him, fitting the top of her head under his chin, sliding an arm over his torso: the worn fabric of his shirt, the curve of his ribcage. She splayed her hand over his back and felt him breathe. One of the orbs winked out, leaving only a single orb hovering over them. Nott could see only Caleb’s open shirt collar and the dip at the base of his throat within it, cast into deep shadow. She closed her eyes, inhaling the sharp familiar scent of Caleb’s sweat. Caleb’s breaths were uneven, as though he wanted to speak, again and again, and then thought the better of it each time. His body was tense beside hers.

“You don’t—” Caleb began, and his voice was thick, his accent stronger than usual. “You don’t have to stay with me. If you don’t want to.”

Nott scoffed involuntarily, but then she schooled herself. “I know,” she said. She tightened her arm around him.

“Oh.”

“Have I said anything tonight to make you think that?” She tried to infuse her normally high, reedy voice with the surety she felt.

“Well,” Caleb said. “No.” He gingerly settled an arm around her.

“Just… trust me.”

Caleb’s fingers threaded through the ends of her hair, tugging so gently at her scalp. “All right,” he breathed.

The soft tugs at Nott’s hair continued sporadically as Caleb’s breathing evened, then stopped entirely. The orb winked out. Nott opened her eyes to the warm space between her body and Caleb’s. His arm had become heavier over her but she was able, very slowly and carefully, to ease herself into a sitting position without waking him. She didn’t have Caleb’s human helplessness in the dark so she didn’t need his softly glowing orbs of light to see his face, slack with sleep. There were furrows etched into his forehead; she extended a hand and gently brushed her fingertips over the skin. In the darkness she couldn’t see the color of her own green-gray skin and she could almost imagine she was a halfling or a gnome, someone who wouldn’t get thrown out of the city or into a jail cell if anyone saw her with her mask off and arms exposed. Caleb’s forehead didn’t relax.

She let her hand drift down his face, brushing back the strands of hair that had fallen over his ear and cheek. His stubble was getting long enough to be soft. She found herself wondering whether he had grown a beard at the asylum, prohibited from handling sharp objects, perhaps indifferent to—or unaware of—his own appearance. A vast and profound sadness welled up within her. She thought of the woman in the asylum who had put her hands on Caleb and taken his false memories, his madness, into herself; and Nott, now, placed both hands gently on his sleeping face and imagined taking into her small body his sadness, his guilt and anger and hatred and blame, and allowing him to sleep peacefully, for once.

There wasn’t a spell for that yet, at least to Nott’s knowledge. But she was clever, and she could be patient. She would figure it out.


End file.
